


A Lovely, Shaded, Winding Road

by transcryptidone



Series: The Nursery at the Top of the House [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childbirth, Dark Abigail Hobbs, Dark Will Graham, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Happy Murder Family, Hurt/Comfort, Lactation Kink, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Murder Husbands, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Post-Season/Series 03 AU, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Trauma, Whump, labor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transcryptidone/pseuds/transcryptidone
Summary: It’s the story that they let the townsfolk believe: Will and Abigail – though of course they don’t go by Will or Abigail – are a father and daughter who moved to Montana after a “friend” of Will’s offered to let them make use of his “winter home” up north. When they told the story, Will would sigh and solemnly mention that he’d had a hard time finding work as a mechanic and they needed a place to settle into after her no-good boyfriend ran off.It’s a good story in the sense that it does what it’s meant to. Strangers might have a harder time accepting a brand new couple moving to town with an age difference like theirs. The story could easily deteriorate as nosey, curious neighbors start to gossip about what Will and Abigail might want to run away from. Running from disapproving families could all too easily lead to thoughts of running from the law.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: The Nursery at the Top of the House [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006617
Comments: 24
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please mind the tags. There are some changes from the previous fic, because I felt like some things settled out differently. But if the tags need an update/addition, please feel free to let me know!

The little bell above the door jingles as they walk in – Abigail first and then Will. It’s a nice temperature outside, not too hot, not too cold, which feels like one of her few blessings. She’s winded and tired just from the walk from their car to here. She and Will have errands to run – the store, the market, and the post office. They need to get supplies and make their appearances. It wouldn’t do good for them to hide themselves away or make themselves too visible. They are normal townsfolk now.  
  
_“Cammie, look at you!”  
_  
Abigail huffs a breath – _as if the little bell hadn’t been enough of an announcement already_. She hardly feels like she needs one. The townsfolk hardly miss her. There’s some staring that comes from disapproval, but most look at her with small town sympathy. As far as they know, she’s a sweet, simple girl down on her luck. A woman named Molly works at the store and whenever they come by she always coos over Abigail’s belly and offers mothering tips. Even with all the practice, Abigail knows her smile is still awkward, she can see it from how Will mirrors it in a tight, lopsided sort of way — especially when Molly refers to Will as Abigail’s father.  
  
It’s the story that they let the townsfolk believe: Will and Abigail – though of course they don’t go by _Will_ or _Abigail_ – are a father and daughter who moved to Montana after a friend of Will’s offered to let them make use of his “winter home” up north. When they tell the story, Will sighs and solemnly mentions that he’d had a hard time finding work as a mechanic and they needed a place to settle into after her no-good boyfriend ran off.  
  
It’s a good story in the sense that it does what it’s meant to. Strangers might have a harder time accepting a brand new couple moving to town with an age difference like theirs. The story could easily deteriorate as nosey, curious neighbors start to gossip about what Will and Abigail might want to run away from. Running from disapproving families could all too easily lead to thoughts of running from the law.  
  
Suspicion is eased by the sympathy, which is easily felt for a hardworking, loving dad, especially when Will plays it up with complaints of soreness in his shoulder from wounds he got when he was on the force. Around here they eat that up like candy – or whatever people in Montana really love. Will could hover over her and care for her and simply seem like a dad caring for his abandoned daughter and, though it might be easy to judge a pregnant woman without a ring on her finger or even a boyfriend to dote on her instead, people are also suckers for a woman who trusted too much in love and loved her baby none the less for it.  
  
Abigail figures that’s why Molly dotes on her so much. She feels some degree of affection for the woman. It’s been a long time since Abigail has been around anyone new and even longer since she felt anything like motherly affection aimed towards her and Molly’s hands are always so kind and gentle when she reaches to feel the baby kick.  
  
Abigail rubs a hand across the dress that hangs over her belly and tugs at a button on her jean jacket – or really _Will_ ’s jean jacket – that she wears whenever they go out. It fits her poorly in the shoulders and she has to roll up the sleeves several times. As oversized as it is on her, it hangs nicely around her belly – though even today she discovered that she wouldn’t be able to button it closed if she wanted to. It has patches sewed on it; some to solidify their falsified background and others just for fun. On the shoulder, there’s a patch for a sports team and there’s a high school emblem on the left sleeve. On the chest just above a pocket, there’s a pride flag.   
  
“John, you should be leaving her at home by now,” Molly tut-tuts. “You should be fine on your own. We’re not so scary! There’s no need to drag Cammie around with you as close as she is to popping!”  
  
“I couldn’t stop her. She hardly listens,” Will scoffs. He lets his accent come out more now. He uses it to sell their humble story. She always smiles when she hears it – sometimes from affection and sometimes because she wants to laugh. This time her smile is soft and kind as he continues and adds, “I tried to teach her not to make the same mistakes I made, but she’s stubborn. Had to learn the hard way.”  
  
Molly smiles at Will softly too. For all that Molly teases him, Abigail can see how this other woman looks at him, what she sees in him: a father who raised his daughter through adversity and pays no mind to the scandal. That must be attractive to a woman like Molly, who has made sure to give Abigail plenty of talking-tos about the hardships of being a single parent and how she’ll need to keep her chin up.  
  
“Sometimes girls just want to have a little fun,” Molly says, giving each of them a wink.  
  
Will clears his throat like an awkward dad would at any mention of his innocent daughter doing what makes a baby. He looks away around the store even though there’s not much to look at and clears his throat before he deflects, “Bringing her to town is the least I can do after I had to take her away from the big city.”  
  
Abigail gives a sarcastic roll of her eyes. She makes it come across as slightly childish to add to the act. “I don’t care about _the big city_ ,” she complains petulantly as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I just don’t like being cooped up all day.”  
  
There is enough truth there to sell it. After so long on her own in isolation, she doesn’t like being cooped up and she relishes any opportunity to be outside and interacting with _people_. She’d been afraid that when they were on the run she would have to be kept hidden away in a basement again, but in truth, she is the one the authorities are looking for _the least_. As far as everyone is concerned, she is dead and even those who might go looking for Will wouldn’t expect him to be traveling with a pregnant woman.  
  
What she doesn’t say in her half-truth is that she also never wants to leave Will’s side. Even though they’ve been together for weeks now, whenever he leaves, she’s still always worried that he won’t come home. Whenever he disappears out the front door, her heart starts to pound and her breath seems stolen from her chest and her mind starts to think about everything but she can hardly make sense of any of it. She tries to convince herself that he will be back, but it doesn’t _feel_ like the truth. She spent so much time waiting for him that _having him_ feels too good to be true.  
  
She does hope to have to take a break from going into town for a while. She hopes every day when she wakes up that she will have reason to stay home. She’s overdue by now. She doesn’t know how. They are ready. Her body is ready. _She_ is ready. After all the time and effort and worry, she just wants the baby _here._ Her back twinges just to remind her – not that she can forget – and she shuffles on her feet as she grips at her arms, scraping her nails against the coarseness of the jean fabric. As her forehead wrinkles, Will rubs a hand on her shoulder. It’s not what she wants or what he wants but it’s all he can do in public.  
  
“I know you’re feeling restless, honey,” Molly coos in sympathy. “Use the energy to set up the nursery instead.”  
  
“The nursery has _been_ ready,” Abigail reminds her. Molly had given her some of her son’s old things – some clothes, some blankets, and some other odds and ends. They hadn’t really needed the hand-me-downs, but as a family down on their luck, it would be suspicious to do anything but accept them happily. “The baby just _refuses to come_ ,” she complains. “I thought walking was supposed to help.”  
  
“The baby will come when they want to. Not a minute sooner,” Molly says as if she hasn’t said it every time she’s seen Abigail since her due date passed.  
  
When Abigail groans, Molly chuckles and Abigail very nearly wants her dead.  
  
“I think we better hurry up so we can get home soon,” Will interrupts as he rubs his hand across her shoulder again.  
  
Thankfully, Molly lets them politely excuse themselves and they shop for what they can at the store. It’s barebones and fairly lacking, but they’ll buy the rest from the market and make do. Will often catches fish for dinner and sells the extra when he can to the neighbors. It’s good for them to see him take any opportunity to make ends meet.  
  
“You’re lucky to have your dad, Cammie,” Molly says as she rings up what they’ve brought to the counter. She overlooks some of the items so the total won’t be too much. “Not that I don’t think you could take care of yourself, but we all need some support now and then. How any man could call himself good and not be there for the woman carrying his child, I’ll never know.”  
  
Abigail can feel Will flinch and grimace. This always happens. Will’s awkward smile always turns to a grimace whenever Molly laments how a man could possibly leave Abigail on her own. Abigail leans her head on Will’s shoulder and takes hold his arm with her hands. She grips as tight as she can so that he can’t help but feel her through the stiff canvas of his jacket and she hugs her body against his so he has to feel the curve of her belly against his side.  
  
“I know I’m really lucky,” she says with an affectation of dreamy, idyllic admiration, like Will is the greatest hero she’s ever known. “I’m grateful every day.”  
  
He twitches a smile at her because he knows he should. He lays his hands over hers and squeezes against her fingers, but she doesn’t let go. She holds onto him as he grabs a ratty wallet from his pocket and thumbs it open to get out some cash. They’re quiet as he hands a few bills over and only the sound of the cash register and the click of keys break the silence. Molly’s eyes flit between the money in her hand, the register, and Abigail. Her eyes linger longer on Will and that sweet smile comes back to her face.  
  
If only Molly knew about what happened to the last woman who coveted Will as a father.  
  
Will is quiet as he guides them through the rest of their errands. No matter how many times they’ve made appearances in the small town, she never seems to know where anything is. There’s a huge gap in her memory where one section of town is supposed to lead to another and she turns down streets only to find dead ends. She wishes she could hold his hand as he leads her through the streets but his fists are clenched and form lumps in his coat pockets. Abigail guesses it shouldn’t matter since the townsfolk might not react well to it anyway.  
  
Will only talks to the vendors and the employees at the post office as much as is needed to get what they need and gives a quick hello or a simple nod to the townsfolk who wave. There’s only one or two who go out of their way to strike up a conversation with them. They always want to remark on her size and ask to feel her belly. They compliment how strong the baby seems and how strong she is for carrying so long. She gives a self-deprecating laugh and says that being obstinate is something the baby gets from their father. The townsfolk interpret Will’s huff in response as disapproval of the man who led her astray. In truth, Will knows when he’s being teased.  
  
By the time they return to their car, Will is carrying a series of bags while Abigail braces one hand against her aching back. She feels contorted around the deep curve at the dip of her back and no stretching, twisting, or turning makes much of a difference. The pain radiates down to her hips as her pelvis feels pried open to make room for a baby that’s had too much time to grow. Dull pains have come and gone throughout the day but she knows better than to get excited about it. Too many times she’s thought the baby was finally, _finally_ coming only for the pain to die down again and the baby stays put another day.  
  
Will puts the bags away in the car and she braces her arm against his shoulder as he helps her into the passenger seat. He gives her a kiss on her head before he closes the door because he can get away with it and she smiles at him as he goes around to his seat. She puffs out a breath to get the hair out of her face. She hates her bangs. They cut her hair and dyed it for their cover. She somehow looks even more midwestern and _Mall of America_ now that she has her hair bleached blonde. She hates that she looks like a _Cammie_ but sacrifices must be made. She’s just glad for once that her missing ear means they couldn’t hack away too much of her hair. She knows Will misses her old hair too but all he does is tell her she looks beautiful.  
  
For his part, Will has let his beard grow thicker to complement his more rustic cover. His hair is growing longer too. She waits until they’ve hit the back roads before she reaches over to loop her finger in a curl. She groans as she shifts towards him and his eyes flick away from the road to look over at her. She knows he expects her to say something during the car ride, but the baby feels pressed against her spine and her organs crushed along within, so she saves her breath and simply pets her fingers through his hair to make him shiver.  
  
When they arrive home again, Will helps her back out again from the car and she gasps when gravity hits and the baby feels so _low_. When the baby dropped a couple of weeks ago, she’d thought that meant that it would be time soon and she’d groaned and pouted when she learned that wasn’t the case. It makes the steps leading up to their home that much more challenging when she already couldn’t see her feet and her center of gravity seemed constantly in flux. Will guides her up the stairs and once she reaches the front door, he leaves her to fetch their purchases.  
  
She struggles to catch her breath as she walks inside and she is greeted by the scent of delicious food as she always is. It seems that something is always cooking around the clock – preparing and stockpiling. Any food that doesn’t get eaten right away is frozen for later when they will be too exhausted to prepare anything beyond toast. Abigail hums happily at the smell of roasting vegetables and, as she approaches the oven, she can faintly hear meat sizzling – beef probably, _actual_ beef. There’s been no indulging in alternate sources for meat since they ran away from Maryland. It was too big of a risk.  
  
Arms loop around her waist and she hums happily at that too. Great, big hands slide to cradle low at the bottom of her belly and the tender touches carry a reverence and an attention to detail, feeling from the outside that the baby hasn’t done something they shouldn’t like turning the wrong way around just before they’re meant to arrive.  
  
“How do you feel?” Hannibal asks her as he continues to touch her this way and that.  
  
“Like I want this baby out of me,” she complains with a laugh, short and wry. She reaches an arm behind her and twines her finger in hair that’s being allowed to grow longer. As she lolls her head against her upstretched arm, she leaves her neck open to the kisses that decorate her throat against her scar.  
  
Hannibal hums. He hears this from her every day. As the physician in the family, he’s the one who has to monitor her and has had to disappoint her every time there is a false alarm. “Was your trip pleasant at least?”  
  
“For the most part,” she sighs as Hannibal’s hands stop poking and prodding her and instead stroke heavily across her stomach like a promise – as if the hold of his hands might be enough to make her womb clench and obey. An ache rolls through her and makes her shudder. “Will’s upset,” she tells him.  
  
“You know what to do about that,” Hannibal reminds her and gives her another kiss on her neck.  
  
Abigail sighs. She does. She has had to comfort Will for his absence many times.  
  
Will’s footsteps are clunky and their bags land on the counter with the cacophony of cans of food clanging together and a series of smaller boxes dully colliding. He fiddles with checking the bags over so he can avoid acknowledging that they were talking about him. Hannibal releases her from his grasp and takes hold of Will instead. She watches as he takes Will’s face between his palms to force him with a steady care to look up and kiss him without question.  
  
Abigail likes watching them kiss. It still holds a certain novelty. She and Hannibal had plenty of alone time across those many months and Will had been an empty space between them that whole time. Seeing Will and Hannibal together eases a part of her that otherwise always has its hackles raised like a cat ready to pounce.  
  
They’re all softer together in Montana or maybe they’re just _sadder_ ; she isn’t sure how to know. Hannibal had to leave behind his three-piece suits in favor of allowing himself to go grayer and letting his hair grow out too. Hannibal probably wishes that he could have whisked them away to somewhere more glamorous – somewhere with galas in ballrooms and progressive enough to not blink an eye at a couple like theirs. Sacrificing the glamorous is what keeps them safe. No one would imagine Hannibal setting aside expensive wine and rare ingredients to live out in the middle of the woods. This is what she blames for the surge of affection she has for the grey stubble that he’s grown and how the slightest scrape of their facial hair against each other offers such a pleasing sound.   
  
Hannibal’s part in the story is to be the “friend” who’d been so kind as to offer them a home. That would make it make sense if someone were to come around. It’s reasonable to think that the owner might want to visit his home and his “friend” from time to time. It’s unclear if the townsfolk would or could ever see the implication for what it is. She guesses probably not. Men have been “friends” and “roommates” for ages.  
  
“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal praises as they part and Will looks a little happier for it, but only a little. Hannibal doesn’t loosen the hold of his hands and forces Will to look at him as he asks, “Will you help Abigail upstairs? There’s time before dinner will be ready.”  
  
Will licks his lips and he nods. “Yeah,” he says with a few blinks of his eyes. “Yeah, of course.”  
  
Only then does Hannibal let him go, but even so Will stays in his place. He watches as Hannibal takes Abigail by the hand and kisses the back of it. She is guided back over to Will the way a woman might be lead to a suitor at a ball. She rolls her eyes at him but still finds herself blushing as Will’s hand takes Hannibal’s place. His fingers are warm and calloused from his odd jobs around town. She loops her hand around his elbow and the hold becomes less delicate as they climb the stairs. She puffs air that’s as annoyed as it is tired when she can’t catch her breath and the low hang of her belly makes raising her knees feel wobbly and awkward.  
  
Will guides her to their room down the hall. It’s probably not practical for all three of them to share a bed. Abigail is just plainly too big and needs too many pillows to cushion various parts of her body to allow for much space in a bed for another person let alone two. There have been times when it has been difficult to arrange their bodies and times when it has felt just a little too claustrophobic to manage, but whenever she thinks about asking one or both of them to sleep somewhere else, the words only manage to reach the tip of her tongue before they’re swallowed back down. The idea of sleeping alone is just too much. She needs them there when she wakes. She needs to be able to touch them easily and bring their hands to touch at her skin.   
  
She eases herself down onto the bed with a groan, but Will doesn’t follow. She can see from the far off look in his eye and the twitch of his fingers that he’s still punishing himself. Perhaps it says something about his upbringing that he thinks self-sacrifice and self-flagellation is how he should make amends. Hannibal would know the answer to that. He’ll probably announce it over dinner someday.  
  
“Say it,” she tells Will.  
  
She always makes him say it.  
  
Will bows his head as he says, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“I accept your apology,” she replies and she watches his shoulders drop slightly. She rubs a hand across her tight, tense belly as it squeezes and Will’s eyes follow the motion. “Now that you’ve apologized, you don’t need to dwell on it, do you?”  
  
Will sighs heavily. That was the agreement they came to. Will could apologize once so he could say how he feels rather than keep it locked inside. It wouldn’t benefit anyone to have him stew on his thoughts alone when they could turn dark and twisted and wound him far too easily that way. It also wouldn’t benefit him to harp on it and give his ability to banter and debate too much opportunity to twist their words.  
  
“Come here,” she demands and Will settles on the bed next to her.  
  
She takes his hand and places it back on her belly where the baby squirms. She knows their cover story hurts him. The commentary on absent fathers strikes a particular chord – probably by design. Will forgave Hannibal more easily than himself. In Abigail’s view, she thinks Will has a hard time letting himself be okay. He can love Hannibal and forgive him his transgressions, but struggles to allow himself the same.  
  
He told her once, _“The wrong thing being the right thing to do was too ugly a thought.”_ He won’t see ugliness in Hannibal or Abigail – he decided to let himself love them too much – so he finds it in himself instead. All Abigail figures she can do is offer him comfort, make him feel her forgiveness, and force him to absorb it. With enough repetition, he may be forced to feel it in earnest. Maybe that’s part of Hannibal’s plan too. She wouldn’t put it past him.  
  
“You’ll listen to me now,” Abigail tells Will as she puts a finger to his chin. She clicks her tongue as he looks up from under those big, long lashes but still keeps his face looking so serious and severe, his cheeks hollow with how he sucks in his breath and clenches his jaw. “You didn’t know,” she reminds him as she kisses against his cheekbone. She keeps her voice low and even and without question. “You weren’t supposed to know. You did exactly as you were supposed to. You know we’re proud of you.”  
  
Will’s breath is a shaky, wet one, but he shakes his head in a nod. His hand continues to touch at her belly, far less clinical or overbearing as Hannibal had done. His touch is light and soft and reverent. He touches all over the huge expanse of it and then when he’s done, does it all over again. She knows he’s memorizing the feel of it for later. He asks Hannibal to draw another picture of her at least twice per week _and_ he bought a polaroid camera from a thrift store in town. She’s woken up to the whir of it printing yet another photo. The house is decorated with so many pictures of her that she almost feels like the Virgin Mary.  
  
“You may have missed some of the baby growing,” she reassures him as she tips her forehead against his temple. “But you’ve been taking such good care of us since and we have our whole lives to show this baby love. Isn’t that what matters most?”  
  
Will nods back. She can feel how his face goes smoother and slacker as he tries to force his feelings to reconcile themselves. “Yes, Abigail,” he concedes.  
  
“Good,” she says, lips smacking as she kisses loudly against his cheekbone. “I’m starting to feel like this baby is holding out on being born on your behalf. We don’t need this going on forever just so you can have longer to feel sorry for yourself and cop a feel.”   
  
His lips turn in a sort of smile that comes from teasing as he gives his fingers another swirl against her belly. “I will miss this,” he admits.  
  
She laughs and then when he chuckles too, she laughs some more. She pats at her belly as it jumps a bit with her giggles. “With how you and Hannibal talk, I doubt it will be too long until I’m like this again.”  
  
The look of hope in his eyes is a beautiful one – a piercing blue even if it still hides in skies made cloudy by hesitation. “Would you be okay with that?” he asks with a tone that says he doesn’t believe it.  
  
“All three of us lost our families,” she says. She thinks of her mom and her dad and Will’s dad and Hannibal’s mom and dad and _Mischa_. They don’t have any of them anymore. By commonplace standards, their family has an excess of parents and somehow still a major deficit in grandparents. “We deserve to be able to make as much family as we would like.”  
  
There’s nothing _sort of_ about his smile and there’s no hesitation in his eyes. “How lucky we are to have found you,” he says so absolutely.  
  
“We’re lucky we found each other,” she says as she puts her hand against his cheek and strokes at the scruff. She smiles as she feels the baby kick against her hand. This baby has been her constant companion when she spent so much time alone. No one in their family will have to be alone anymore. They have each other and this baby will have siblings, never lacking a playmate or a co-conspirator. “All that’s left is to be happy together,” she murmurs against his lips and seals her words with a kiss.  
  
She can feel how Will mirrors her as he puts his hand on her cheek too and when they pull away, she can see some of her contentment in the softening of the planes of his face that he so often keeps harsh.  
  
“Why don’t you take your nap,” he suggests. “I’m going to help Hannibal in the kitchen.”  
  
She does feel awfully tired from walking and the ache in her back is really taking the wind out of her sails. She suppresses how the idea of him leaving – even just leaving _the room_ – makes fear scratch its nails down her spine. She shakes her head slightly and shakes her shoulders like a shiver. She reminds herself that a good rest with her usual arrangement of pillows will do her some good.  
  
“Alright,” she agrees as she nods. “Come wake me when you’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was feeling super sad this weekend and wasn't sure that I would post this, but I feel better today and decided to just go ahead and do it. I hope you liked it!
> 
> Please leave me comments. They make me happy :)


	2. Chapter 2

Will flicks the light off and closes the door behind him as Abigail shifts to settle into bed. As he walks back down the stairs, he tries to keep his footsteps light, though there isn’t exactly a good reason why. There’s no risk yet to waking Abigail and Hannibal will hear him coming no matter what. Maybe it’s just good practice for when it will be a fleeting blessing to have a quiet house.  
  
It is no surprise that Hannibal is still in the kitchen. He has managed to still pull off amazing dinners with intricate components even without his kitchen complete with all the odds and ends he needs. Will thinks it might be as much boredom as creative inspiration as tables have turned and Hannibal is the one confined at home while Will and Abigail have some freedom to roam. Hannibal might be able to come out to town with them once or twice before they have to move on, but they should probably give him more time to grow out his hair so that he doesn’t look quite so obviously like he does on the FBI’s Most Wanted.  
  
Hannibal looks up from whatever shape he’s carving a carrot into and sets aside his knife on the cutting board. Will steps closer to close the distance between them and touches Hannibal’s hand over the knife’s handle. Hannibal raises his eyebrow at him and twitches just the corner of his lip. Will smiles back as he leans in and kisses Hannibal where he smirks.  
  
Will feels his moroseness like a chasm – broken open, cracked jagged, and with a great darkness at its base. Abigail built a bridge across it and fortifies it when she can, but he still worries Hannibal might whisper in words that echo and break it wider. He presses his mouth harder against Hannibal’s and swallows down any words that might be forming and Hannibal answers him with his touch. He crowds himself against Hannibal’s side and Hannibal presses into it even as Will’s fingers curl their hands tighter. Will feels assurance bubble up inside him as heat pools in his belly and Hannibal starts to feel like the lava that could mend the break or overflow it.   
  
Will pulls away. He releases Hannibal’s hand and the knife handle along with it. Instead, he picks up Hannibal’s set aside wine glass and takes a deep sip. He already got a taste for it from Hannibal’s lips and it doesn’t feel quite so satisfying coming only from the glass. Hannibal watches him as he drinks; Will can feel his eyes on his throat as he swallows.  
  
“Did you have a pleasant conversation?” Hannibal asks as he picks up his knife and resumes his vegetable sculpture.  
  
Will gives a single, self-deprecating chuckle. “She gave me a good talking to.”  
  
“Was it enough?” Hannibal asks without any malice. He tilts his head slightly as he scans Will’s face for hints and clues. When Will reflexively smooths his features, Hannibal gives a thoughtful sound. “We no longer have our conversations quite as they were, but there’s no reason to deny ourselves the intimacy of each other’s understanding.”  
  
Will nods. They have had some conversations just the two of them since they ran away. They drove the whole way from Maryland to Montana, swapping driving duties between the two of them whenever one of them got tired and stopping for breaks when Abigail felt too confined and needed to stretch her legs. He knows Hannibal would have rather flown them to Europe right away, but if a woman as pregnant as Abigail insisted on a plane ride, it would be a dead giveaway for something untoward.  
  
The one benefit of needing to drive was that it offered them plenty of time to talk and a need for stimulation to keep them awake. They’d whispered to each other in a way reminiscent of how they had on the way to Peter Bernadone’s. Hannibal had told Will then that he was right by his side and Will had been too skeptical to let himself believe it. On the way to Montana, they couldn’t be any more _by each other’s sides_.  
  
By running away together, the three of them only had each other and, once that line had been crossed, there was no longer even a need for lies of omission. In the dark of their commandeered car, Hannibal could share with him the vital pieces of honesty they’ve sorely lacked. When Hannibal kissed him at a stoplight, Will felt exhausted and wrung out to dry. For once, he could at least be honest with himself and acknowledge that part of Will had always wanted to run away with him.  
  
Still, Will hesitates. He has spent so long fighting Hannibal out of his head. He has built forts and rebuilt them once demolished or if Hannibal had managed to dig a path underneath the walls. He armored himself. He could sling his own barbs and needle Hannibal as needed. He has practiced piecing out the parts of Hannibal that he planted, but when he tried to yank them out by the roots, he felt himself yanking at veins and arteries that fed and drained his heart.   
  
“I want to let you convince me, but feel like I know that I shouldn’t,” Will starts. He has to give somewhere and that seems the easiest. He looks at Hannibal in all his newfound casual, disheveled state. He can see it for what it is. Will and Abigail have always found comfort out in the woods. “You know that. That’s why you make Abigail convince me.”  
  
“I knew you would have an easier time listening to her even if we would say the same things,” Hannibal agrees. He nods honestly and openly – no reflecting back the question or deflecting the topic like he had many times in the dark of his office. Hannibal’s confession to even so slight of a manipulation eases Will’s worry, while also feeding it. He worries that Hannibal makes this easy admission to gain Will’s trust so that he might more easily deceive him in other ways. It’s a cycle of trust and distrust that Will cycles through without resolution.  
  
“I find myself wishing to not feel so _guilty_ ,” Will says. The back edges of his teeth rub harshly against his tongue. “And I feel _guilty_ that I’ve wished away my conscience.”  
  
“Not your conscience, Will, your guilt,” Hannibal corrects. “The two are not the same.”  
  
Will takes another sip of wine as Hannibal sets aside his creation and checks the meat sizzling in the oven. The heat that escapes licks at Will’s back and makes him shiver. “I’d ask you the difference,” he says, “but I also know it’s never bothered you much.”  
  
“It doesn’t bother me,” Hannibal agrees again as he closes the oven once more. He lays his hands against the counter and looks Will in the eye as he says, “But that doesn’t mean I lack an understanding of it.”  
  
Will closes his eyes and can feel the wrinkle in his brow as he thinks. He tries to remember the feel of Hannibal’s touch and the comfort to be found there and the acceptance Abigail has been drilling into his skull.  
  
“I feel something simmering under my skin, scratching at the back of my mind,” Will confesses and, as soon as he acknowledges it, the attention makes it hurt more. He grips his hand in a fist and feels the tension. “I can see sometimes how Abigail would be perfectly happy to have Molly dead and I find myself tempted by the idea that I might have an excuse.”  
  
Hannibal smiles and Will can so _nearly_ see his teeth. Will isn’t sure what it would take to earn himself more than that. “I know the feeling,” he says.   
  
“Molly has hardly done anything to me,” Will continues on. “Or any of us for that matter. It couldn’t be further from any sense of justice or self-defense.”  
  
Those Will killed – or very much considered killing – had carried with them a justification in the form of ending some sort of harm and using violence to save the world from other violence. Having Hannibal as a friend has changed how he would define who is deserving of that violence. Having Hannibal as a partner requires a kind of acceptance that seems boundless. He accepts everything Hannibal has done and everything Hannibal will do. Will hasn’t quite accepted what it will mean for him to do those things with him.   
  
“Molly has a son,” Will says. “If one of us was taken from our child for something so _petty_ , I would think the world should tear apart.”  
  
“We are of a self-centered species and by nature assign our own realities higher importance,” Hannibal explains as he gracefully takes the wine glass back from between Will’s fingers. “Your empathy allows you to identify the humanity in everyone in ways that most others could scarcely fathom. To feel every suffering with the acuteness of personal experience requires you to hold too many things at once.”  
  
Will huffs a sarcastic laugh. Hannibal can be obvious sometimes if he chooses. “You’d prefer that the only things I hold onto are the things that are important to you,” he says even though it could go without saying.  
  
“Your clever mind will give you enough to search through to outlast our lifetimes many times over and it would be a waste,” Hannibal continues. “Your time would be better spent weeding out the others and getting in touch with the purest part of you that lies underneath.”  
  
“The dead religion of psychoanalysis,” Will recalls.  
  
“It may or may not be correct to call it your id, but I do believe that there is a part of you that knows truly and deeply how you feel,” Hannibal argues. He looks soft with a certain kind of nostalgia that pairs perfectly with the smells of hearty comfort food that surround them. Will wants to drink more of the wine from his lips. He watches as those lips shape themselves around the words as Hannibal vows, “Any condemnation of that part of you is condemning something I hold quite dear.”  
  
Will remembers the times when he has felt most certain. He thinks of when his emotions overtook him. Those were the emotions Hannibal and Abigail wanted him to have _and_ that they still managed to be _his_.  
  
“It wasn’t like this before,” Will says, not knowing himself if it is a question. “You weren’t like this.”  
  
Hannibal leans towards him and stops just shy of a kiss. His eyes study Will but he doesn’t come closer. His voice comes out barely above a whisper as he explains, “You made the decision that was needed. Everything else is aesthetics.”  
  
Will thinks this time of the family they’re making together to replace the ones lost and left behind and the simple intimacy of the bed he shares with the two of them in their home. He feels how Hannibal warms as he is nearby. Will warms with him and he could be afraid of it, but for a moment he wonders why bother.   
  
“I know you will never see them quite like I do,” Hannibal assures him. “You will find your own way. I only offer my encouragement.”  
  
Will closes the distance and the warmth he felt merges with the brutal confidence he remembers. He thinks fondly of the dining table they left behind. Will is tempted to give the kitchen counter the same treatment, but as they linger in contentment and kissing, the timer ticks down until it dings. With dinner ready, Will goes to wake Abigail. When he touches his hand to her shoulder, the way she blinks awake makes him think she was hardly asleep. She groans as she pushes against the mattress and makes a noise of complaint as she sits herself upright.  
  
He kisses the middle of her forehead where her bangs are askew and there are the furrows from a grimace. “Let’s get some food in you,” he says and Abigail reaches out an arm for help to lever herself off the bed.  
  
Will helps to ease her downstairs as she wobbles and struggles to keep her sense of balance. By the time they arrive at the bottom, Hannibal has finished preparing the table and holds out her chair to tuck in behind her. She sits with a huff and rubs at her belly with one hand as she picks up her fork with the other. She raises a bite of food to her mouth and pauses to shift in her seat before it makes it to her lips. After another short pause, she takes her bite and Will does too. His eyes still watch her as his teeth scrape against his fork’s tines. A look back at Hannibal shows him doing the same.   
  
As their meal progresses, Will and Hannibal watch Abigail squirm and writhe at the dinner table. Like the old days, he and Hannibal look into each other’s eyes as they sip at their wine and know themselves to be in perfect agreement. They look between each other, their plates, their glasses, Abigail, and back again over and over as their plates become more and more empty and sweat gathers on Abigail’s forehead. Her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of red and still they watch. She keeps her sounds of confusion and whimpers to a minimum, though they all know both he and Hannibal hear them loud and clear.  
  
“Sweetheart,” Will says to her finally. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I _hurt_ ,” she gripes as she pushes her food around her plate and rolls her shoulders. “Like _always_.”  
  
“Would you like Hannibal to check?” he asks carefully.  
  
“What’s the point. It’s probably nothing,” she huffs, setting her fork down on her plate and dropping both hands under the edge of the table. “At this point, I won’t believe I’m in labor until this kid is halfway out of me.”  
  
He looks back at Hannibal, who simply takes another drink of his wine. Abigail’s hand shakes as she brings it back above the table and takes a hesitant sip of her water. She sips it in distraction. Over and over again, staring off into nothing, she drinks one sip after another until the ice clinks. She sets the nearly empty glass back on the table and the jerk of her hand as she gasps nearly knocks it over.   
  
“Abigail?” Will tries again.  
  
“I—” she starts. Her eyes are huge, round circles, deep, blue, and clear. “My—” Her lips are held open and frozen in astonishment. She gapes at them like a fish Will caught on a hook.  
  
“Did your water break, lovely?” Hannibal asks and Will looks at him in surprise.  
  
He can feel his eyebrows rising towards his hairline. Hannibal, of course, looks as calm and unbothered as ever. He doesn’t even put down his fork and knife. He cuts into more beef as he slides his eyes over to look at her.   
  
“Yes,” Abigail whispers, as if it’s forbidden to speak aloud. Will can understand. For all of Hannibal and his verbal sparring, words have never seemed to hold such an influential role as they do in this moment. Turns of phrase and double meanings have nothing on the simplicity of plainly stating the beautiful and terrifying thing that is finally unfolding.  
  
Hannibal turns to look at her. Even with the stubble, his face seems so smooth and serene. “Do you want to get up from the table?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she says. She looks at Hannibal so desperately her eyes glisten. “Should I?”  
  
Hannibal hums. “Would it make you more comfortable?”  
  
“I guess,” Abigail says, though she doesn’t move to stand. She barely moves at all but to place a shaking hand against her belly as if her touch might burn. When no searing pain comes – _not yet_ – she shifts slightly in her seat. “My clothes are wet,” she observes.  
  
“Let’s get you changed and Hannibal can check you,” Will suggests.  
  
“Okay,” Abigail agrees, her voice still barely above a whisper.  
  
Will stands from the table and offers his arm once again for her to take. Her grip on him is tight and tense as she pulls herself to standing. She looks back at her seat and seems to hesitate at the sight of the dark wet spot on the seat. Hannibal appears at her other side and guides her forward with a touch of his hand to her back. She passively follows as they lead her back upstairs to their room.  
  
She simply stands in the middle of the room as Will and Hannibal set their hands on the buttons and ties and peel away layers of clothing. She groans as she bends to step out of her underwear and she might have collapsed if not for the hand that grips at Will’s shoulder and Hannibal’s arm still around her waist. They let the pain pass before they try to move her again and urge her back towards the bed.  
  
Once she is settled against the covers, Hannibal leaves the room briefly to retrieve some of his supplies. While he’s gone, Abigail gasps as another pain grips at her. She takes hold of Will’s hand and squeezes as she curls herself as tightly as she can around her swollen belly. Her breath rushes out in a gust and her muscles loosen some of their tension as Hannibal reenters the room.  
  
Hannibal sits near her feet and begins the process of checking her over. He starts with feeling along her belly and checking both her heart rate and the baby’s. He then pushes at the inside of her knee with gentle fingers until she shakingly spreads her legs and bends them back. Hannibal is quiet even as Abigail whimpers with pain and, after another contraction has passed, he carries on examining just how much she might be dilated. Will breathes a sigh of relief when Hannibal announces that everything is in order. They have been waiting and waiting, constantly wondering when it would happen and now it has started.  
  
Abigail looks at Will, still a deer caught in headlights. “The baby,” she gasps, blinking down at her belly as if she’s never seen it before. “The baby’s coming.”  
  
Will smiles. “Yes, darling.”  
  
“I didn’t think—” she starts. She licks her lips as she hesitates. “I thought I would feel different. After all this time, I thought I would feel relieved. But I’m just _scared_.”  
  
“You don’t need to worry yourself,” he reassures her. “Hannibal and I will take care of you.”  
  
“This is what we have been waiting for,” Hannibal reminds her as he takes her hand where it rests on the bed. “Everything is as it should be. You’ve done everything right to bring us here.”  
  
Abigail nods at Hannibal earnestly and squeezes back at his hand. Seeing Hannibal and Abigail together reminds Will of their first day together seemingly a lifetime ago. Hannibal had held her hand when she looked so small in her hospital bed and Will had sat himself on the other side. Any stabs of affection he’d felt for either of them in that moment were forcibly suppressed and dulled. He denied himself the opportunity to consider what could be. He wanted to avoid the disappointment of what he couldn’t have. Will could never have even considered then where they would be now. There’s so much he doesn’t need to deny himself anymore and he knows there are some things he still does deny himself anyway.   
  
Hannibal continues to check Abigail every so often. She’s making progress but it takes time. He informs them each time how much she has dilated and asks Abigail if she wants to change positions. She shifts from laying to kneeling and kneeling to standing. Will does whatever is asked of him, which usually entails Hannibal suggesting something to Abigail, who then tiredly agrees.  
  
Will dabs at Abigail’s forehead with a wet washcloth Hannibal placed in his hand and offers her water that Hannibal refills at regular intervals. He accepts Hannibal’s kiss to his forehead as he receives another full glass and lets himself be soothed by Hannibal’s smile against his skin. Will feels himself and Abigail both at Hannibal’s mercy and grateful for it.  
  
Abigail kneads her fists into the curve of her back as she stretches. The arch of her back is nearly as severe and outstanding as the roundness at her front. Their child has stretched her limits in body and soul. She’s always been a petite, skinny little thing and no matter how much he knows Hannibal has fed her, it seems to have all gone towards providing for the baby. Her arms and legs still seem so thin and delicate.  
  
Looking at the huge swell of her belly, suddenly has him wondering how she will possibly have the strength to bring their child out of her body and into the world. He thinks this but doesn’t say it, wouldn’t dare. He can’t be the one to give her any reason to worry. Not when she clearly gets some relief just seeing him standing in the doorway. She uses the strength of his arms to hold her up as she squats low and grips his shirt between her teeth when she kneels again on the bed.  
  
When her legs tremble too much, she sits back against the bed to give her thighs a break. He settles himself by her on the bed and even through the pain and strain, she gives him such a lovely smile. Usually, straight and styled, her hair crowds around her face in a frazzled, anxious mess. It’s an unruly collection of straw instead of the dark, sleek shadow it used to be. She’s brushed her bangs aside over and over in irritation. The hair is damp with sweat as he smooths it and he presses a kiss against where the dark roots have just started to grow out to betray the blonde.  
  
She huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh but turned into a cough. She presses a hand to her chest as she catches her breath. Watching as her chest rises and falls, he’s struck with an urge to touch her so strong that it sizzles at his palm. He wants to touch her skin and feel its soft dewiness and where it’s gone tacky as the labor has made her sweat.  
  
He wants to feel every change, every shift in her body. He wants to feel along every curve that developed when he wasn’t looking and have only become more beautiful as he’s been there to witness it. He wants to cup her breasts in his hands and feel how they have grown heavier to provide. He wants to touch the belly and feel the clench of the womb that will soon no longer hold their child. He wants to know what it feels like when her muscles contract and her body opens itself wider. He wants to be in touch with every part of the miraculous process of their beautiful, wonderful Abigail bringing another being into the world.  
  
“You should kiss me,” Abigail tells him and so he does.   
  
He kisses her as a contraction rolls through her. She tenses and bites down too hard on his lip until he thinks it might bleed. She releases him as she gasps a groan that he then swallows down. She pants against his lips a few times. When her lips stay slack, he kisses down her neck instead and her pulse thuds against his lips.  
  
He works his mouth down her throat and, once he’s tasted the salty sweat at the dip of her clavicle, she takes hold of the hair at the back of his head. With a tight tug of her hand, she pulls him lower. He follows gladly and eagerly presses his tongue against her breast and licks along the round, curve of it. He feels the weight of it against his tongue and how full it is and his next lick glides across her nipple.  
  
_“Ah!”_ she gasps, nearly yelps, and the fingers in his hair tighten further into pinpricks of slight pain. “Don’t stop.”  
  
He wouldn’t – _couldn’t_. He flicks and slides his tongue over and over again as his other hand strokes at her belly. The muscles clench and tense against his hand and Abigail moans and whimpers. He licks, sucks, and touches to distract her from the pain and show his appreciation. She arches against his mouth as much as she can and coughs and sputters as she looses track of her breathing.  
  
“Will,” she gasps as she yanks his hair away instead of closer. “ _Will!_ ”  
  
“What is it?” he asks as he pants his own breaths. He can already feel something frantic crawl back in. He pulls back and looks over her flushed, sweaty face for sighs of something foreboding.  
  
“I want Hannibal,” she says. The strain in her voice makes it sound like a demand. She must see alarm in his eyes, because she pats a shaky hand to his cheek and adds, “I feel fine. I just want him here.”  
  
Will swallows and nods. “Of course.”  
  
He goes downstairs to fetch Hannibal, who had taken a breather to make some coffee. Without the contraption he had in his Baltimore home, he’s had to settle for a French press. By the time Will arrives, it’s nearly empty.  
  
“Abigail wants us,” Will announces.  
  
Hannibal nods and takes another long swig of his coffee, then refills the cup with the last of what’s left. Hannibal approaches him and, just as Will is about to turn, Hannibal takes hold of him by the elbow. Will wrinkles his brow in confusion and starts to protest, but Hannibal simply raises the cup near enough to his lips and tsks his tongue. Will sighs and nods and tilts forward to put his lips at the edge as Hannibal tips it. The coffee is just a little too hot on his tongue and he might have liked a little sugar, but doesn’t burn or make him sputter. He hums in gratitude as the warmth of it spreads through him comfortingly and the bitter taste perks him up already.  
  
When they return to the room, Will has drunk the last of the coffee and Abigail has eased herself back on the bed. Her hair is up in a ponytail, showing both her missing ear and the scar on her throat. Will and Hannibal settle down on either side of her.  
  
“What do you want from us, lovely girl?” Hannibal asks as he makes a study of her belly and her pulse. His hands are professional and intimate and gentle and sure. Will watches how they move and flex.  
  
Abigail takes hold of one of those hands and hisses as she presses it to her breast instead. Her lips purse and would be teasing if she wasn’t so tired or so scared and her voice didn’t wobble. “I want you to make me think about something else for a little while,” she says.  
  
She lies bare there in between them as they cover her with their touch. They pet dutifully and lovingly at her skin as she labors. Their hands and their mouths and their bodies make sure that nothing is left untouched or uncared for. Hannibal puts his mouth where Will’s had been and licks and _sucks_ until Will catches the swallow of his throat out of the corner of his eye. Will licks and sucks at her neck instead while she gasps and whines as if right into his ear. Will rubs against the clench and unclench of her womb as felt through her straining skin. When she squirms with the pain, Hannibal takes hold behind her knee and pulls it up to touch and knead against her inner thigh.  
  
They use their attentions to touch her exactly as they know she likes. She moans louder and longer. The whines are sharp and the whimpers are desperate. Her hands grip tight against their biceps and the edges of her nails dig in deeper until she’s likely to leave divots behind, if not bruises.  
  
“ _Good_ ,” Hannibal praises as he kisses at her cheek and she turns to whimper again against his mouth. He kisses her as her lips pout and tremble. “So sweet, as always.”  
  
When Abigail pulls away in a flinch as she winces with another pain, Will takes his chance to have his own taste from Hannibal’s mouth. When Will kisses him, he tastes the sweetness too. He licks along Hannibal’s lip as he pulls away and Will can’t help but smile. He drinks down Hannibal’s sated satisfaction and it’s the calmest he’s felt since they sat down for dinner. If only it could last longer.   
  
Abigail’s contractions are painful and punishing, coming faster and lasting longer until Abigail seems no longer able to relax in between them as one pain seems to roll into another. Their touch no longer adds a helpful source of distraction and Hannibal has to resume his more clinical attentions. Hannibal continues to be so calm while Will feels more and more frazzled as he feels Abigail’s energy wane. Her hold on his hands as Hannibal checks her again flinches and flexes when another pain hits her. They shift her so that she can rest against Will on the bed and he can feel how she shakes and trembles. When Hannibal announces that it's time for her to start pushing, the breath of relief seems to come from both of their chests.  
  
Abigail groans as she pushes and in its hollowness, Will can hear the scream she’s choking down. Her cheeks are bright pink and the longer she holds her breath, the redder she gets. Will can feel how her muscles tense as she pushes and sees her belly clench tightly. Unfortunately, her effort is not matched with progress. The baby has had time to grow larger and Abigail always seems so slight.  
  
“I can see the head, Abigail,” Hannibal reminds her as she gasps a breath at the tail end of a contraction. She has been pushing so hard and so bravely but loses progress as soon as she stops.  
  
Abigail writhes back against him as another pain rolls through her. She tosses her head from side to side as she shifts her hips, making low noises of pain. She can’t close her legs. She can only shift them slightly closer before they spread wide again. “The baby’s _too big_ ,” she gasps as she pants to catch her breath and Will can feel the words as they puff against his jaw.  
  
“I know, sweetheart,” Will says soothingly as he guides their hands to brush against her heaving belly.  
  
“The baby won’t _come out_ ,” she whines and Will can hear how desperate she is. He can feel it as he feels his own tiredness and has agonized over her pain. He feels a whimper bubbling at his lips as hers punctuates the air. Her hand shakes as she touches her belly and her voice wobbles as she cries, “They’re not going to fit.”  
  
“You can do it, sweetheart,” he replies. “I know you can. You’re so strong.”  
  
“Please just get the baby out, Will,” she begs. She shakes her head as more tears drip and fall. Her voice cracks with emotion and exhaustion as she pleads him, “ _Please_.”  
  
“I would if I could,” Will promises her and _hurts_ with how much he means it. He’s known his own pain – the pain of being stabbed, being shot – and he would experience it all over again in her place. He knows she has had pain too. A slice to the throat is not without suffering. He remembers how she gasped and wheezed under his hands. Her eyes had looked the same then as they do now.  
  
She grits her teeth and arches into his body as she holds in her breath, holds in another yelp. She holds it all in but he can still feel her scream echoing in his skull as she refuses to push. “Will, _please_ ,” she sobs into his chest and against his shirt, hiccupping as her contraction eases. “You have to help me. _Please_.”  
  
Will feels dread creeping up through his belly and the phantom feeling of something caught in his throat. He knows Hannibal has made himself ready in case he needs to operate and Will swallows the roll of revulsion at the thought. His warmth and sweat feel sickly as he thinks of the room down the hall filled with supplies for all manner of things. Hannibal has disappeared packages of many shapes and sizes in the mail into the room and Will has heard the sound of metal clinking when he’s walked by the closed door  
  
Will is aware that Hannibal knows Will wouldn’t be able to participate. Will thinks of the glint of the knife against her belly and flinches. The idea of cutting into Abigail makes him _sick_. The one time they’d come close to discussing it, Hannibal had to rub at his back as he coughed and hacked until he threw up. Still, the feeling didn’t pass until Hannibal whispered beautiful, soothing words in his ear, describing the stream with Abigail there at the embankment, smiling and holding a happy and healthy baby in her arms.   
  
“We have to meet our baby,” Will tells her as he fights back the tears that threaten to gather at his eyes. He squeezes her fingers in between his and kisses at the back of her head. “You’ve done so well so far.”  
  
“I just want it _out_ ,” she cries as her chest hitches violently with her breaths. “I don’t know how to get it _out_.”  
  
Will looks at Hannibal desperately as Abigail’s panic claws at his skin.  
  
“Abigail, look at me,” Hannibal demands. Hannibal’s expression is even as she turns her head back towards him. His eyes flick up to meet Will’s before looking back at her. The look in his eyes holds no room for questioning and the tone of his voice is as commanding as it is comforting as he says, “All you have to do is help your body do the work and not fight it. I’ll help you with the rest.”  
  
Abigail inhales a deep breath and nods as Will can see another clenching of her muscles and she puts her chin to her chest and pushes with a loud wail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to anyone that commented! I appreciate any love you give this strange story :)


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal is the first to hold this new life. That’s not something he takes lightly. His touch will be the first and only their baby has known in this cruel world, even if just for a moment. It starts with the crown of the baby’s head. He can see the dark hair at the top as it emerges.   
  
It’s damp and soft to the touch as he presses his fingers against it in order to give the baby a controlled arrival. Abigail’s first few pushes made great progress and had the baby descending nicely. It had been as if she’d gathered all her impatience to strengthen her. But while impatience has a long shelf life, it burns out quickly. _Pain_ , now that’s something that can burn for a lifetime. Abigail has known pain. She has had several hours of it just today to add to the many hours of it she’s had in her relatively short lifetime. Her impatience turns to desperation and the strength in her pushes has waned as pain was met with a lack of progress.   
  
Abigail gives a choked-off grunt as she pushes again and he shifts his hand as the baby’s head pushes out into his palm. Her breaths come out shuddering and shivering as the contraction fades again and she’s made more progress than ever before. They’re so very nearly there. Abigail’s whimper is at its tail end as Hannibal looks up at her. He smiles with pride when her eyes shine back so open, trusting, and determined.   
  
“You’re doing wonderfully, lovely,” he tells her. His eyes flick over towards Will, whose expression is one that comes from worry and feeds itself from Abigail’s panic. Although, Hannibal can also see Will’s _awe_ as he bears witness to the destruction and creation that exists within the pain. Hannibal reassures him, “Nearly there.”   
  
As Abigail nods her head, Will does too. When Abigail starts to push, Will curls up with her. The next push has the baby’s head finally born and Abigail gasps, high and sharp and it trails off into a laugh, nearly delirious with relief.   
  
That relief is almost certain to not be long-lasting. The baby took the opportunity to grow big and the shoulders could still be a challenge. For that moment, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that they are that much closer to having the beautiful, living, breathing product of all their efforts. When the pain rears its head again, Hannibal and Will each continue to help in their own way by murmuring into her remaining ear. As Abigail continues to push, He can’t hear what Will says but he is sure they are exactly the words of encouragement that he knows she wants to hear.   
  
Abigail’s last push brings the baby’s shoulders into the world and she births their child into his hands. Those hands have done dangerous, violent things. They have many cut, torn, and broken bodies in their past and future. Those hands hold soft and careful as he checks the newborn over and rubs at her chest.   
  
As soon as the baby’s pink and crying and _breathing_ , he wraps her in a blanket and passes her along to her mother. The look on Abigail’s face as she holds their child clearly shows that while pain could last a lifetime, it doesn’t have to be constant. Abigail is sweaty, flushed, and mussed, but that’s hardly something to notice when her smile is there and shining so bright. The pain will come back sooner rather than later, but thankfully to a lesser degree and perhaps easier for her to bear while holding in her arms the reminder of just how worth it the pain can be.   
  
The baby continues to wail and Abigail and Will both have tears in their eyes to match. The sight of the three of them is enough to make Hannibal misty-eyed too. Will and Abigail have bright gleaming smiles that lighten both of their faces beyond what’s been seen by anyone for a very long time. They might have hardly imagined that they were capable of such a smile not too long ago.   
  
“Look at her,” Abigail says glancing up at Will and then looking back at Hannibal. Her eyes are wide and her lashes are wet. “Come look.”  
  
Hannibal moves away from between her legs – the placenta may be some time yet – and seats himself instead by her hip. He drags the back of his fingertips against Abigail’s arm, feeling the goosebumps as she shivers. Will carefully touches the baby’s tiny hand as it flexes. His laugh is wet as the tiny fingers curl around and grip his pointer finger. There are so many new things for the baby to discover now that she’s in the world. She is perfect and brand new. She has nothing to regret or want to forget. She only has the potential to grow.   
  
The bit of dark hair at the top of the baby’s little head is pressed flat and damp. Abigail brushes her fingers against the baby’s soft, little cheek and around the shell of her ear as she cradles her against her chest. The baby’s cries start to calm and her eyes blink open, likely seeing nothing but looking at them.   
  
“Welcome to the world, my little companion,” Abigail coos at her, voice barely above a whisper. Fresh tears spill over and drip down her cheeks and her inhale is wet and thick as she gushes, “I’ve been waiting for _so long_ to meet you.”   
  
Will gives a laugh and a sob at once. It’s a sharp sound but a happy one. “She’s _incredible_ ,” he says and he kisses Abigail’s hair. “ _You’re_ incredible.”  
  
Abigail tilts her head towards Will and catches him in her gaze. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” she tells him.   
  
“You can do _anything_ ,” Will insists. “But I’m glad I was here.”  
  
Will looks over at Hannibal then and in his eyes lies the depth that Hannibal constantly craves. Will’s pupils become a tunnel burrowing back into the deepest, purest part of him. Hannibal knows how it overwhelms him. He flinches away from what Hannibal wishes he could dive into headfirst. Will perceives it as if it were the kind of tunnel vision that fades the world at the edges when there’s danger abound. Hannibal has every confidence that if Will could learn to see it as an opportunity to focus. If he could, he might see how the narrowing allows him to be more selective in his attention.   
  
Hannibal holds Will’s stare and neither of them blink. He feels the peculiar intensity and thinks: _Stay with me. Remember this._ He doesn’t need to say it aloud for Will to understand it. Will starts to smile as he shifts behind Abigail and tightens his arms around her. He reaches for Hannibal’s hand and still he doesn’t blink. As their fingers slide together, Will's eyes are as open and deep as Hannibal has ever seen them. It gives him a reason to think of a barn with a dead horse and a blood-soaked man lucky to live. He recalls a bruised and beaten kill presented on his dining room table. Will’s eyes had looked then as they do now. Will smiles and holds his hand back. Sometimes the simplest things are the sweetest.   
  
Abigail groans and shifts as she grimaces against another pain. Hannibal releases Will’s hand and positions it instead against the sweat-sticky skin above where the top of Abigail’s uterus lies. He presses firmly downward to help as she pushes and the placenta passes through much more easily and simply than the baby had. Hannibal then carries on with his duties and cuts the chord to finally fully separate mother and child.   
  
They hardly notice the difference.   
  
Abigail has started to feed her and the two of them seem to drift away to their own contented world together. Abigail brushes her fingers against the baby’s cheek as she feeds and she drinks in every detail of this new little life. Hannibal wonders how reality compares to what Abigail imagined when dreams of their child kept her company. It seems to Hannibal that reality might be better. The love that cascades off the two of them together washes over Hannibal even without Will’s gift for empathy.   
  
Hannibal takes the placenta away to be saved for later and, once he returns to the bedroom, the baby seems to have finished eating for the moment. Abigail has passed her off to Will, who has moved out from behind her to instead sit at the edge of the bed.   
  
Will stares down at the baby with such amazement and awe as if he still can’t fathom that what he holds is real and Hannibal can understand that feeling too. The little baby seems like such an impossibility. That they can have something so wonderful seems impossible. This design has been by far his most difficult to achieve and, now that he has, it is difficult to believe. She couldn’t fit into the shape of Will’s hands and Abigail’s arms any better.  
  
Hannibal isn’t prone to underselling or second-guessing. He’s had plenty of productions before and he is rarely concerned about the specifics of the conclusion or what might happen afterward. Even so, he already anticipates many nights when both he and Will sacrifice sleep so that they can keep watch and make sure nothing takes away this baby that they now cherish.   
  
“Hannibal,” Abigail says, barely a whisper. Her voice is tired from all the moaning, groaning, and yelling.   
  
Hannibal leaves Will to his wonder and goes to sit at her side. He’d brought a bowl with a washcloth to start to wash away the fluids and grime from her skin. She will still look sweaty and frazzled and exhausted and will probably still not feel much like herself until she takes a bath, but for now this can be enough. He wrings the washcloth in the bowl and drags it back against her inner thigh. She flinches with tiredness, an ache, and a memory of the searing pain, but her eyes remain lazy with exhaustion and bright with a mother’s love.   
  
“What is it, my sweet?” he asks as he dips the cloth back in the bowl.   
  
“I did it,” she says as her lips shape the words with such reverence. “She’s _here_.”  
  
“Yes, you did,” he praises and he drags the washcloth across another swath of her thigh. He raises his eyes to meet her and smiles softly as he says, “I always knew you could.”  
  
Abigail is more radiant than ever before. She’d labored so beautifully to bring their child into the world and bore the pain so naturally. He has known her strength since she woke up in her hospital bed ready to sell her childhood home. Everything since has only confirmed what he knows.   
  
“You _do_ always keep your promises,” she says as she licks her dry lips. The smile she gives him is equally teasing and genuine.  
  
“You deserve nothing less,” he vows.   
  
He cleans her as much as he can for now. He and Will can help her bathe as soon as they feel more settled. He drops the washcloth in the bowl one last time and covers her with a blanket. There’s a glass of water on the dresser that’s left a ring of water and gone warm. He reaches for the glass and hands it to her. He watches her lift it to her lips with one hand to take a long sip and takes her other wrist to check her pulse. He smiles again at her as she swallows and her pulse is nice and even. Nothing’s amiss.   
  
As he loosens his hold against her wrist, she twists to take his hand. The flush of her cheeks still hasn’t fully faded and it makes her scar stand out even brighter. The sweat in her hair has made it stick together and clump in a way that reveals where he’d taken her ear. It’s a sight he’s used to though Will still isn’t. If she tries to tuck back her hair or it’s the early morning light when Will is only barely awake, he still flinches as if caught off-guard and swallows as if he can still feel her ear in his throat.   
  
Hannibal doesn’t flinch. He leans forward to kiss her and she meets him halfway. He can feel the slight chap of her lips as he knows she can feel the coarseness of his stubble. She doesn’t flinch away either. Instead, she presses her hand against his cheek and brushes her thumb against the dusting of hair there.   
  
“You love the baby, don’t you?” she asks as she pulls away.   
  
“I do,” he agrees with all the heart that he has.   
  
“Good,” she replies and kisses directly against the stubble near the dip of his cheek. “She deserves as much love as she can get.”   
  
“Yes, she does,” he agrees again. That truth is just as easy as the one before it and the one that comes after: “You all deserve as much love as I can give and more.”   
  
“Something wonderful came from this whole mess,” Abigail says as she looks away towards Will and their child and Hannibal looks with her. She smiles sweetly and softly as Will continues to stare down at the sleeping bundle in his hands. “The lies, loneliness, and hard decisions, the blood, sweat, and tears, she was worth all of it.”  
  
Hannibal hums and, as he straightens his posture, Abigail’s hand falls away from his cheek. “I’m glad to hear it.”   
  
He usually doesn’t have much use for regret. When he decides to do something — or _not_ do something — it’s usually for a good reason. He recognizes that if he had made his threat a reality in his kitchen that day, he would have robbed them all of so much. He would have regretted that for the rest of his life.  
  
She clicks her tongue at him and hums in teasing disapproval. “If Will and I are allowed to be happy, then so are you,” she instructs him.  
  
Hannibal laughs once and his lips twist themselves into a smile. The fate and circumstance that brought the three of them together really have had a sense of humor. “I am happy, my sweet,” he says. “How could I not be?”  
  
When Abigail rests, Will rests with her and Hannibal has his own time to pause and breathe. The shift to focusing on his clinical, medical train of thought hadn’t been difficult but it was significant. For the past many hours, Hannibal’s focus on the wellbeing of his child and partners had taken up far more space than usual. Now that he no longer needs to keep _Dr. Lecter_ at the forefront, he can take pause and give more space to other tracks.   
  
He picks up the baby when she fusses. She’s quiet for the moment but that might not last long. He takes her to the nursery to keep from waking Will and Abigail as they snore softly together in their bed. He sits with her in a rocking chair Will put together and then double- and triple-checked for sturdiness and safety. Hannibal rocks them softly back and forth as the baby gets the attention and care she’d wanted and starts to quiet.   
  
Hannibal hasn’t had a chance to take the time to look at her quite like Will or Abigail have. He only had his glimpses as she was born and his checks to confirm her good health. He hasn’t yet had his chance to simply sit with her. She’s clean now. She had a bath before Abigail did. They’d dressed her with a little hat on her head and wrapped her tightly in a blanket. Hannibal curls himself downward to smell the newness and softness in her scent. She smells like Abigail and milk and icing sugar.   
  
As the rocking lulls the baby back into her hard-earned sleep, Hannibal thinks she is a magnificent little creature. Hannibal had known she would be. She’s small and delicate and feisty. She’d taken her sweet time and then came into the world triumphant. Abigail decided to name her _Maeve_ and told Hannibal and Will that it was because the name means “ _cause of great joy_.” That had made it an easy name to agree to; neither Hannibal nor Will found any reason to hesitate.   
  
“The Irish warrior queen,” Hannibal says as he admires the little babe.   
  
Although Abigail had not seemed to have been aware of Maeve’s namesake when she chose it, _Medb_ was described as a fair haired wolf queen, whose form was so beautiful that upon seeing her men would be robbed of two-thirds of their valor. Looking at the little newborn, Hannibal feels robbed of nothing. Since before Maeve was even barely more than a cell, she has only helped him gain.   
  
This baby will look at them with new eyes. She won’t see Hannibal the Cannibal, the Murder Husbands, or the girl they each supposedly murdered. One day surely this child will know the truth but, until then, they will get to bask in the simplicity of _mom_ and _dads_. It will be their piece of freedom on the run. There are many parents who claim that they’ll love their child no matter what and say they would kill for their child, but so few mean it as truly as he does.   
  
“You look beautiful.”  
  
Hannibal looks up from the sleeping baby to see Will standing in the doorway rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. His hair is a mess, the curls have grown longer and gone wild with all the excitement. The sweater and pajama pants he wears are both Hannibal’s but, since the move to Montana, the distinction of what belongs to who hardly matters. He looks cozy, comfortable, and unassuming. Hannibal adores the easy softness of Will when he’s asleep or just woken up.   
  
“She has wonderful genes,” Hannibal admires.   
  
Will smiles as he crosses the room to place a steadying hand at the back of the rocking chair. He slows the chair’s sway and he looks down at them in consideration. “I know she barely looks like anything other than a _newborn_ , but I still think she looks like Abigail too.”  
  
“That would be nice,” Hannibal says as he looks at Maeve’s little face. As of now, she has a fair amount of dark hair and her nose might look something like Abigail’s, as well as her chin. There’s no way to tell what will happen as she grows, but he hopes Maeve has her mother’s bright, wide eyes.   
  
Will hums and crouches down on the balls of his feet to kiss at the peak of the hat on top of Maeve’s head. “If she looked like you, that might be nice too.”  
  
Hannibal is glad the rocking had been settled already. Any motion might have felt like too much to account for when discussing something that has hung so long in the balance. It has been left unspoken even after Hannibal made his confessions during their trip over. Neither Abigail nor Hannibal have found any reason to mention it. They had decided long ago that there would be nothing to gain from that.   
  
“Will—” he starts.   
  
“I’m not mad,” Will says right away. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood to make Hannibal squirm or jump through hoops. Hannibal considers the possibility that Will is too tired or feels too sentimental or maybe Will truly doesn’t care. Hannibal himself cares very little about who exactly sired the baby in his arms. She’s _theirs_.  
  
Will’s expression is unflinching, but not in the angry or stubborn way. His forehead isn’t furrowed. His teeth aren’t clenched. His jaw isn’t tense. There aren’t the usual signs of Will’s temper or want for retribution. He still looks like the Will that woke up in the bed they share and the Will that trusts him enough to sleep next to him at night. As Will touches his arm carefully, it’s a touch that Hannibal has seen Will give Abigail many times, but has yet to experience it himself. It’s tender, but not careful. It’s comforting and comfortable.   
  
“Thank you,” Will says to him, looking up from below with no power struggle or symbolism. His eyes look particularly deep, blue, and earnest. “Without you, we might not have what we have. Instead of being together with our family, we might have all been in prison and lonely or dead. I know that now.”  
  
Hannibal cups his hand around Will’s cheek and brushes downwards around where his strong jaw is hidden by the beard he has to grow. Hannibal looks forward to someday taking them all away to somewhere where he can shower them in the finest things in life: dances in ballrooms, homes decorated with the most wonderful art, clothes that are beautiful but could never upstage the ones that wear them. Hannibal will give it all to them someday. He might surprise himself that he’s not more impatient to have it sooner, but it’s difficult to complain when he sees Will and Abigail so at home. There’s no need to rush.  
  
“This is all I’ve ever wanted for us,” Hannibal says as Maeve snuffles in his lap and Will rises to meet him for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad that Hannibal had the shortest chapters in both fics, so that's how this turned into a Hannibal apologist's wet dream...
> 
> I have a sort of idea for maybe an epilogue? Or a one shot? I'm not sure. It's a vague idea so I don't know how far I can stretch it. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented! I like this fic a lot and I'm so glad others did too!


	4. Epilogue

Will is covered in blood. His shirt and his pants are dark and wet with it. It’s dried against his clean-shaven cheek and into the curl of his hair as it hangs against his forehead but still drips from the ends of his fingers to create little growing puddles on their wood floor.  
  
Hannibal is there next to him, although he’s tidier. He has a splash of dark red across the knit of his sweater and a bit around the cuffs of his pants but otherwise looks so close to normal. His hand is against Will’s back, guiding him like an animal who scares too easily, though he’s no longer quite so feral. In fact, Will seems frozen rather than frantic. While the clench of Will’s jaw makes him seem as if he’s made of stone, Hannibal pushes him further into their home with a soft, proud smile on his face.   
  
The blood trails behind them as their paths diverge. In the quiet that surrounds their house, their footsteps are the only sound and even those sounds are made soft out of habit as parents of a baby who everyone would prefer to stay asleep a little while longer. They discovered quickly that it’s a blessing and a necessity to have the three of them. When she wakes, she has her demands and wants to cry hard and loud until they’re met. If they could afford the acclaim and notoriety they might dream of Maeve becoming an opera singer someday. Maybe Hannibal does anyway.   
  
Hannibal disappears down the hallway towards the guest bedroom and the ensuite bathroom that lies within. His clean up job will be easier and simpler. There’s less mess to account for in body and mind. Will’s footsteps fall behind a surer, less hesitant pair as Abigail takes his hand and guides him down a hallway he knows like the back of his hand. He might not need her guidance to know where to go, but he needs it to get there.  
  
He stands stock-still in their bathroom as she unbuttons each button of his shirt. His jaw is still clenched and she can’t help but kiss it and she comes away humming as she imagines blood on her lips like lipstick. She can feel the heat and weight of his gaze on her and she smiles. She’s always liked how he looks at her, even when it was with hesitancy, shame, and regret. Even when he’s closed off, he’s still genuine in a way she’s hardly ever known before. After the buttons on his shirt are done, she parts the halves of it with the slide of her hand. The skin underneath is sticky with sweat and dried blood that’s seeped through. While stained with someone’s blood, he still shivers against her touch. She wonders how he can manage to be so sweet.  
  
She pushes his shirt away from his shoulders and drops it without a care on the floor. His pants come next as she undoes the button and the fly. The process is neither sexual nor lacking in sex appeal. Her love for Will and his body is there as her hands can’t help but trace fingers along his scars. There are the two at his shoulders, as well the one along his side and the other one across his bicep from times gone wrong. Luckily, it seems that none of the blood is his this time.  
  
The bath is ready. She made it boiling hot in anticipation of needing it and steam still rises from the surface. Will hisses through his teeth as he settles into it, but he doesn’t flinch away; he only sinks in deeper. He submerges himself completely for a second or two and then rises back above the surface. When she dips her hand into the water and it burns but she doesn’t flinch either. She simply lathers soap in her hands. It’s a routine she knows well.  
  
Will and Hannibal go out more and more often. Sometimes because of Hannibal and sometimes because of Will. Abigail knows when they get that glint in their eyes and she can tell as they lick their teeth when they’re getting hungry. It should remind her more of her father and it’s not that it _doesn’t_. She does see the darkness they all share, but she can love them for it instead of fear it.  
  
Since she started her college courses, they have been able to restrain themselves enough to at least not do it on a school night. They might have been afraid to have a clear pattern but no one expected the kind of violence Will and Hannibal could create to come from someone who cared for something so petty as _school_.  
  
When they moved again, they had enough time and space to allow her the anonymity needed to go to attend university. Sometimes she can still hardly believe it. When her father started killing at every campus she visited, she thought he’d taken everything normal from her. It might not have been the biggest thing, but she’s mourned losing the opportunity to go to college and be a student. Will and Hannibal made sure she got it back even if she has to commute a bit to maintain the distance.   
  
Their new home is still secluded. Hannibal’s wealth — _their_ wealth — almost makes seclusion seem like luxury, although Abigail still doesn’t much like the idea of it. The reality of being with Hannibal and Will eases her fear of isolation and, of course, Maeve has kept her company as long as the baby has seemed to exist. But where the wind against the windows once felt like excitement and freedom, now it just reminds her of what she hadn’t had.   
  
Never mind that living in the middle of nowhere also means shitty internet which makes Abigail have to frequent the coffee shop in the campus library to get her work done. The poor barista flirts so terribly and something about him reminds her of Nicholas Boyle. Maybe it’s the color of his hair or the shape of his face or maybe it’s that he doesn’t seem like he knows what he’s gotten himself into. He’d teased her when she switched from several coffees per cram session to a more subdued series of teas, some of which were brought from home and made specially by Hannibal. That poor barista was so disappointed when he noticed her belly had started to round out again and push against her clothes.  
  
The squeeze of the shampoo bottle makes an unsatisfying, sort of squelching sound and she groans as she has to fetch another from under the sink. She grabs another of the fancy shampoos that Hannibal picks. She and Will don’t have a preference but Hannibal’s nose very much does. She stumbles as she approaches the tub again and Will’s hands shoot up from the water to brace her, leaving wet handprints on her shirt. She smiles at him in thanks as she sits back on the edge of the tub and starts to lather his hair as it has become second nature.  
  
At the start of their practice, Hannibal would be the one to tidy Will up. It seemed only fair that he should if he was the one picking Will apart and encouraging him to make his mess. Plus, Hannibal seemed happy to do it. He always started with Will’s hands — cleaning blood from under the nails and tending to split knuckles and cuts from the slip of a knife when the handle was slicked too much with blood. The way Hannibal looked at Will then gave Abigail the feeling that such a thing shared a deeper significance that she didn’t get to be a part of and, to tamp down on her jealousy, it was then decided that Abigail would take that place instead.  
  
She may have to surrender it back again because her back already aches from leaning.  
  
“Come join me,” Will murmurs. His voice is soft but shatters the silence.  
  
Abigail scoffs and rubs at the side of her belly. She’s bigger this time; she’s sure of it. She’s already well past the point of a slight little swell and it’s been rounding out into her lap for a while now. “I don’t know that there’s room.”  
  
When Will places his hand over hers, he promises so solemn and serious, “I’ll make room.”  
  
She hums and smirks at him. “Now, how can I say no to that?”  
  
She pulls away her clothes and drops them on the floor too. Hannibal will do the laundry and mop later. That part of the clean-up is still delegated to him. Will’s hands hover in the air around her as she climbs over the edge of the bathtub. He leans back and spreads his legs to fit her in between them. She relaxes back against his chest and settles in as his arms wrap around her. In the warmth of the water and his body against hers, she suddenly feels like she could fall asleep in an instant. Her eyes slip closed and their breaths seem to match each other as they go quiet, soft, and slow.   
  
“Where is Maeve?” Will asks just when Abigail might think she’s asleep. His voice rumbles through his chest into her back and his hands cradle low on her belly. His fingers trace along the surface as if memorizing it. It’s nice to have him from the start this time.  
  
“Still asleep or with Hannibal, I’d imagine,” she replies. “Thick as thieves those two.”  
  
That earns her the jolt of a laugh, quick and sudden. One might think a cannibal serial murderer and a baby would be a poor combination. They’d expect him to be detached, overly strict, and probably violent. The reality though is that Maeve _adores_ him. She thinks his accent is curious and _hilarious_. When she started to teethe, his soothing whispers that wove between English and Lithuanian were just about the only way to get her to sleep. She’d cry and cry and as soon as he started to murmur to her, she’d seem shocked and get distracted from her complaints.  
  
“You’ll see her later,” she reminds Will.  
  
That is the final piece of their ritual. Once he’s settled back into himself enough, Will can see Maeve and she will make sure he remembers all the many pieces of himself: the killer, the partner, and the father. While Hannibal is the one to calm Maeve, Will is the one she most loves to cuddle. She may still look like Abigail’s replica, but Abigail wonders if she might have Will’s capacity for empathy. When Maeve lays against his chest, they fall so beautifully in sync.  
  
“Did you have fun?” she asks.  
  
Will’s hands twitch and his arms tighten, but only the very slightest amount. “Yes,” he admits.  
  
“I’m glad,” she says and then with a teasing smile adds, “Did you bring a doggy bag?”  
  
“There—” Will starts and then hesitates. She can feel how he holds his breath in his chest. His voice is even more careful as he confesses, “There wasn’t anything left.”  
  
She knows Will is attuned to any tension in her body or recoil in her mind, but it’s easy for her to stay calm and unbothered when that’s how she truly feels. She hums a supportive sound and makes sure his hands stay on her belly where they belong as she asks, “Who was it this time?”  
  
“That professor that called you a slut,” he answers and his tongue is sharp against his teeth as he says the _t_ in _slut_. He must feel the edges of his teeth as he cuts through the word.   
  
She imagines Will tearing apart the man who dared to insult her and their children. The smarmy man had been so smug when he’d mocked her for spreading her legs. He assumed their children were reckless _accidents_ when in reality they couldn’t have been more on purpose. Her now-former professor wouldn’t be so smug as he cowered and begged in front of Will who wouldn’t hear it and Hannibal who would offer him no mercy or reprieve. She wonders if they told him why he was being punished and put down. Will may not have had the wherewithal for it but Hannibal loves to taunt. She doesn’t need to have seen the look on Will’s face or heard Hannibal’s words to know they did her justice.  
  
She’s sure if there had been anything to harvest, it would have been too bitter to enjoy anyway.  
  
“I have such good boys,” she praises and Will hums as he kisses her hair.   
  
They lay together until the water has turned too cool to be comfortable and Will helps her heave herself up to step carefully over the edge of the tub. Will dries her off with a towel and makes sure to give care to the places that while not _impossible_ are already getting pretty difficult to reach. He uses the same care to dress her. He slips her feet one-by-one into her panties and guides her hands and head to dress her in one of his own shirts. It’s the gentleness in the touch of his hands and look in his eyes that proves he’s ready to see Maeve.  
  
Hannibal is with her as Abigail predicted. His hair is damp from his own shower as he holds her cradled in his arms. Thankfully, she’s still asleep. Her snores stay soft and gentle as Hannibal looks up at them and gives a smile so subtle Abigail thinks he might be afraid anything more would break the still silence. They don’t need to speak as Will walks deeper into the nursery and Hannibal gives him Maeve to hold. Will and Hannibal had a few different incentives to become adept in communicating without making a sound.   
  
Although the baby is getting bigger and doesn’t fit quite as easily into their arms, Maeve barely snuffles as she’s shifted from one of her fathers to the other. The rocking chair Will sits back in isn’t the same one from before they moved, but a replica Will built again from memory. As he starts to rock with their baby in his arms, Abigail can hardly tell the difference.  
  
With his arms now unoccupied, Hannibal moves towards Abigail and lifts his hands to cradle her cheeks in his palms. She doesn’t quite speak their unspoken language but she knows what Hannibal wants when she looks into his eyes. They leave Will to bond with Maeve so that they might also spend time with each other.  
  
Hannibal guides her to the couch with hands that were just as careful as Will’s were and there’s no blood to be found on his skin or under his nails. He looks as immaculate as ever. Now that they’ve moved, he no longer needs to keep from shaving and his cheek is smooth as she kisses it in thanks. She settles herself into the plush of the couch in a way that is as comfortable as it can be and he sits to curl himself against her. His arm loops around her back and his hand settles against her belly.   
  
“Was it everything you wanted?” she asks him as he nuzzles his cheek against her hair and breathes in.  
  
“It was,” he says on his exhale. “I wish you could have seen it.”  
  
“I think I prefer to leave you to your fun,” she says. “I don’t enjoy it like you do. It’s one thing I’m perfectly fine appreciating from a distance.”  
  
Hannibal hums and nods as he caresses a hand across the curve of her belly. “Then I’m glad I was there to bear witness to your only kills,” he muses. “There was something beautiful about blood on your lovely, delicate little hands.”   
  
When Abigail thinks of it she doesn’t remember being able to look at her hands and see them the way she looks at and sees Will’s. She can remember how her hands shook and how the blood dripping had seemed so accusing and damning. The only thing she saw in the color was how _vibrant_ it was – how it would stain, how it would lead back to her, how it meant that everything would fall apart. On Will’s hands – and Hannibal’s too – blood seems almost like paint and she understands how they speak of it like art.  
  
“Will told me who it was,” she says. “Are you sure it won’t get traced back to us? I don’t want to have to move. I like it here.”  
  
“It’s all taken care of,” he reassures her. “He was not a well-liked man.”  
  
Abigail laughs at that. “I’m not surprised.”  
  
“We won’t have to move again for a long time,” he says and he taps his fingers as if to provoke some movement from within her womb. “Children need stability.”  
  
“Do you ever wish nothing bad happened to us and we could just be normal?” she asks and her voice wavers with her hesitation.  
  
She doesn’t want to ask but he seems like the only person she really _could_ ask. She knows he of all people she’s ever known would know what’s at stake with the question. The _bad thing_ that happened to him can’t be easily dismissed as _for the better_ or something that _made him stronger_. When people would say those things at Port Haven, Abigail thought they just wanted to say what they needed to in order to leave.  
  
“ _Normal_ isn’t a concept that holds any true meaning to me. _Weird_ is all I know,” he admits. “Regardless, our relationship might still be considered strange or _not right_ to some.”  
  
Abigail supposes that’s true. Even if they could go to the doctor without a care for being caught, they might still get stares for one reason or another. Their ages and the fact that there are three of them instead of just two might always have some eyebrows raising. But maybe then she at least wouldn’t have to be quite so _afraid_. Those strangers could judge her and she could simply think it was their loss.  
  
“It’s hard not to worry sometimes,” she admits as she feels the way the worry seems always poised to take her breath from her. When she closes her eyes and leans back against his arm, she doesn’t feel as calm as she had in the bath. But Hannibal’s presence has become just as calming as Will’s is and she’s soothed by the strength of his frame. “You’ve made a beautiful place, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we can keep it.”  
  
“I went many years without being caught,” he reminds her as he nuzzles his cheek back against her hair. “With Will as an ally rather than an adversary, there’s nothing to indicate that we can’t continue indefinitely.”  
  
“I want our children to be as close to normal — _or whatever_ — as they can be,” she confesses. The clench in her chest tightens out of fear of his reaction – not the violence, but the _disappointment_ , both his and hers. He might be disappointed that she would suggest they might someday have to stop and she might be disappointed if he refuses. “What if they wake up in the middle of the night afraid of the dark and find daddy covered in blood?”  
  
Hannibal hums but otherwise doesn’t react. There’s no fury or annoyance or even disappointment. His touch is just as casual and soft. “We will be careful,” he says. “We will protect them.”  
  
She tips her head up and back to look at him as she asks, “Do you promise?”  
  
He smiles and holds her gaze without so much as blinking. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided on an epilogue! I thought I wasn't going to be able to scrape together 1k words from a vague idea and I thought I'd be burned out from doing 50k for NaNo but I was wrong on both counts!
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's given this series some love in the comments! I've been so, so glad that folks have liked this series. It's become dear to my heart. 
> 
> This is as far as I've had plans for but if folks have things they'd like to see, feel free to let me know! I can't promise anything but I'd love to keep this series going somehow.


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